


Only If For A Night

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bottom John, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Mess, M/M, Mary Is Mad, My tags are unreliable, POV John Watson, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock Is Not Alarmed By Sex, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock is a Sex God, Top Sherlock, Your Timing Sucks Boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-07 08:45:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14077194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: The title of this story is inspired by the song with the same name by Florence and the Machine.Sherlock walks away from the reception, but John isn't having it. He pushes it until it breaks, which forces Sherlock to admit a few things and John to react to that.This was supposed to be a short, angsty piece, but suddenly there was a lot of sex (Sherlock surprised me a bit here, but well), and then Mary and Sholto demanded to play a part, and it all got out of hand. There's no system or structure to this - it's just fragments of a night that changed some lives. I hope you'll like it anyway!





	Only If For A Night

"Janine! Have you seen Sherlock?"

She turns around and grins at me, all red cheeks and giggles, and before I know it, she throws her arms around my neck for a clumsy hug.

"John! The dashing  _groom_!"

She smells of champagne and a sweet, floral perfume that I don't particularly like. Come to think of it, I don't particularly like  _her_ , either.

"Oh John, I have no idea. So sorry! I've been dancing with---"

"Yeah, thanks, Janine. Never mind," I interrupt her, gently disentangling myself from her clutch. I don't have time for this. She's obviously turned her attention to a bloke I don't know - short, broad smile, glasses, and all in all the complete opposite of Sherlock, whom I had assumed to be her date for the night. Doesn't seem like it, now. "You go on dancing. I'll look for him in the garden."

She shrugs and gives me an apologetic smile.

"Okay."

I turn around and make my way through the crowd towards the large glass doors that lead outside.

\---

Mary will be okay without me for a while. Her girlfriends are surrounding her now, bickering over who deserves to catch the bouquet most, and I just couldn't stand it anymore. It's too much, too loud, too hot in here, and I miss Sherlock - if he was here, we could look at each other and have one of those silent conversations we're so good at, and I would be fine, really.

But he's not here.

 _Where_  is he?

I step outside and take a deep breath, the cool, fresh night air clearing my head. I stretch my back and take a look around, and out of the corner of my eye I see movement between the trees at the far end of the garden. Someone's standing there, smoking. I can see the red glow of the cigarette's tip whenever the man takes a pull, and the tall, lanky silhouette and head of thick curls leave no doubt as to his identity.

"Sherlock!" I call and make my way towards him.

In the dark, it's difficult to make out details, but I can see that his head snaps up when he hears my voice, and then he turns away and raises his hands to his face. It happens quickly and I can't see what he's doing, but when I reach him, he has already turned towards me again.

"John," he says by way of greeting.

I smile at him, sensing that something is off. I have no idea  _what_ , though.

"Were you going to leave without saying goodbye?" I ask teasingly, not really meaning it, because why would he do that? He's just having a smoke.

He inclines his head and puts the cigarette to his lips again. If I didn’t know better (because it’s Sherlock, and he doesn’t do that), I’d think he was  _stalling_.

“I needed some fresh air,” he finally says and looks at the cigarette between his fingers, his impassive face suddenly twitching into a minuscule smile at the paradoxy of his words.

I bite the inside of my cheek, studying him.

He needed fresh air. Fresh air and smoke filling his lungs. Smoke usually being a substitute for stronger stuff that he’s not allowed to use. He's brought his coat, too.

“Is… is everything alright?” I ask. “Are you upset because of Janine?”

He frowns, still staring at the cigarette.

“Why would I be upset because of her?”

I grimace, my hands gesticulating randomly. “I don’t know… I just thought, well, she’s been dancing with that other bloke… and before, you two seemed to be… well…” I break off. Why the hell is it so hard to talk to him about women?

 _(I know why, but that is something we don't think about -_ never  _think about.)_

He snorts and throws the cigarette butt onto the grass, extinguishing it with the heel of his shoe.

“I assure you that I couldn’t care less who she’s dancing with,” he says flatly.

“Well, what is it then? I know you gave up smoking a while ago, so this must be a… an exception. An emergency.”

“John…” He loosens a crick in his neck and eventually looks at me full-on, his eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Go back inside. Your wife is bound to be missing you by now.”

I know it’s Sherlock, and he’s weird like that sometimes, but no. No, I’m not going to let myself be sent away now. None of his mysterious bullshit, not tonight, not on  _this_  important night.

I plant my feet and square my shoulders, glaring at him, and his gaze flickers up and down my body for the fraction of a second, his lips opening to reveal the pink tip of his tongue. The moment passes so quickly that I wonder whether I just imagined it, but it leaves me feeling even more unsettled than before.

“No. No, Sherlock. I want to know what’s wrong. I’m not leaving until you tell me.”

Up goes his chin, and he gifts me with his trademark Look of Arrogance.  _Good grief…_

“It has nothing to do with you. I’m tired. I want you to enjoy your party. Go back inside,” he says calmly.

I shake my head.

“No. Tell me.”

“It’s nothing”

“Tell me.”

“ _John._ ”

There’s a note of warning in his deep voice now, but that only manages to rile me up even more.

“I don’t want to worry about you on my wedding night, Sherlock.”

“Well, don’t.”

“Just tell me and I won’t have to.”

“I’m leaving.”

He attempts to turn away from me, and that is when I see red.

“ _No!_ ” I grab his arm to keep him from moving away and tug a little, and he snarls and tries to shake me off.

“Let  _go!_ ” he almost shouts and tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “Get off me!”

We struggle for a bit, but I don’t let go of him, even when he pulls himself up to his full height, towering above me and baring his teeth.

“Let me go, John. Go to your  _wife_.”

The venomous stress of the last word sends a chill down my spine, building a stark contrast to my boiling blood, which is currently roaring in my ears with anger and frustration.

“What’s your problem, Sherlock?  _What?_ ”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows and the muscles of his upper arm bunch up under my touch. I can tell he still wants to bolt and hold onto him tightly to prevent that.

“Nothing, John! Wasn’t I the  _best_  best man you could have imagined? I helped pick out flowers. I folded napkins. I played the violin. I gave a speech. I did  _everything_  you asked of me, and more.” He inhales loudly. “Now please, leave me the  _fuck_  alone!”

His voice cracks, and I let go of him with a start. He’s crying.  _Sherlock._  Crying.

“Sherlock,” I whisper, staring at the tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes.

He stares back, not hiding it, his back ramrod-straight, his chin held as high as ever.

“There. Happy now?” he asks.

If I didn’t know him so well, I probably wouldn’t hear the shame in his voice, but I do, and it breaks my heart.

_I'd never hurt you._

“Why?” I ask him, praying for an honest answer.

He shrugs, and I roll my eyes.

“Come on, it’s  _me_ , Sherlock, okay?”

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them again, something about his posture has changed. There’s a hard edge to his movements when he closes the distance between us, and I have to crane my head to be able to still see his face. The lapels of his coat are pressed against the front of my shirt. He smells like cab rides in the rain and walks through the countryside looking for monster dogs, like adrenaline and exhilarated giggles and  _home_. My mouth goes dry.

“If you  _must_  know - that’s  _exactly_  the problem,” he says, and then he kisses me.

I freeze.

It’s not more than a soft, but determined press of his lips against mine ( _hot, dry, slightly chapped, alcohol, smoke, Sherlock…_ ), but the brief contact makes my knees buckle nonetheless.

_Oh, no._

He draws back and licks his lips ( _savouring my taste, oh God_ ) and then smiles sadly.

“It’s  _you_ , John. It has always been you, and now you’re gone, and I stay behind. And I can’t bear it. I can’t stay and watch it all, so I’ll leave now. Goodbye. Enjoy your honeymoon.”

Without another word he turns and starts to walk towards the street, his long legs carrying him away from me with quick, strong strides, and I slowly raise my hand to my lips and touch my fingers to where his mouth was only a few seconds ago.

_Fuck._

\---

“What the  _fuck_  do you mean, you have to go look after Sherlock?  _Now???_  It’s our reception!”

People are looking, because she doesn’t keep her voice down.  _Great._ I duck a bit to make a smaller target and try to placate her with my eyes.

“I’m  _sorry_ , Mary – I won’t be long, I promise. He’s… Something came up and he left in a bit of a state, and he… he even left behind his violin! I have to check on him really quickly, and I’ll bring him the violin... It’s valuable… He’d be devastated if he lost it or it broke.”

She glares at me, her nostrils flaring, and who could blame her? It is, indeed, our reception.

“I can’t believe you, John Watson,” she says coldly. “I really can’t believe you.”

I clench my hands into fists at my sides, already on the verge of fleeing from the scene. I've made up my mind, and nothing's going to stop me.

“I’ll be back in no time at all. Just continue without me and I’ll see you later. Okay?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Okay then. See you later.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek and  _run_.

\---

The cabbie puts his foot down and I arrive at Baker Street in less than twenty minutes. I jump out of the cab after throwing the man a few ten pound notes, not caring that the tip turns out astronomically large, and fumble my keys out of my pocket. I’ve never given him back his key, and he never wanted me to, so that comes in handy tonight.

I tiptoe into the hallway and up the stairs, inhaling the familiar smell ( _dust, damp_   _wood, old wallpaper, Mrs Hudson’s perfume_ ) that I’ll forever associate with this place – my first home after Afghanistan, and the start of a brilliant new life.

_Why now? For God's sake, Sherlock!_

I reach out with my hand to put the key in the lock and suddenly he’s there, yanking the door open with a swooshing sound, which startles me and almost makes me lose my balance.

“John!?“

He's looking at me with a mixture of surprise and longing on his beautiful, unguarded features, for once not wearing his mask of cold-blooded control, and I just can't help myself.

_I shouldn't, but I will..._

_Do this now._

He drives me out of my mind.

_I need, I want..._

_You._

He’s still in his tuxedo, but has loosened his tie and opened the first few buttons of his shirt, showing off the long line of his throat and the rapid beat of his pulse in the hollow at the top of his collar bone.

_I’m done for._

“You stupid  _cock_ ,” I say and grab the ends of the white, satiny slip of fabric hanging from his neck.

He opens his mouth to speak, his eyes widening with  _fear? surprise? anticipation?_ , but I just pull him towards me to make our lips collide and thus shut him up quite effectively.

“ _Ah!_ ” he pants and grips my shoulders, digging his fingers into my flesh so fiercely that it  _really_  hurts, and I use the moment to slip my tongue between his lips to look for his.

He hesitates, his whole body going tense, but only for a moment. I pull him even tighter against me, my hands sliding into his hair, and he surrenders to my advances and opens his mouth wider, tilting his head and moving his lips to kiss me back.

We make out messily, right here on the doorstep of the flat we’ve shared for such a long time, and I don’t know if anything in my life has ever felt so  _right_.

“You  _stupid_  fucking  _cock_ ,” I repeat after an indeterminate amount of time spent like this, panting into his mouth, sharing his air. “Why didn’t you ever  _tell_  me?”

\---

It’s ten minutes later, and we’ve finally managed to make our way into the living-room, still entangled in each other’s limbs, still joined at the lips.

“Why didn’t  _you_  tell  _me_?” he rumbles, his large hands cupping my buttocks and kneading them in such an insanely erotic way that I’m sure I’ll faint. “ _I’m_  not the one who keeps screaming that he’s not  _gay_ …”

“I’m  _not_ ,” I rasp and bite his bottom lip before sucking it into my mouth and then letting it go with a slick sound that makes my cock so hard that it’s almost painful.

He moans breathlessly, a grin playing around his lips.

“Yeah,  _right_ …”

 _God_ , his voice. I want to hear him shout my name in ecstasy; I want to fuck him or be fucked by him, I don’t care whichever way, until we both come hard; I want to come back to him and…  _stay_.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” is all I can say. “I  _want_ \---”

He growls deep down in his chest, silencing me with the sheer force of the primal, animalistic need that has befallen him, and slides his mouth back over mine.

Our tongues entwine once more in a long, lascivious kiss that, as far as I am concerned, can only lead to one thing.

Sex.

Fast, dirty, _incredible_ sex.

 _Right_ now.

He seems to agree and pushes me in the direction of the bedroom, never breaking our connection.

_Oh God---_

_what---_

_am I doing?_

_Oh fuck it---_

_I don’t---_

_care._

\---

“Are you clean? John?  _Hm?_ ”

He sounds needy, breathless, not like Sherlock at all, and I nod wordlessly. He shudders and rubs the whole length of his naked body against my side, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel dizzy.

“ _Ah_ , me too…” he breathes and bends down to bite my ear, my neck, my nipple.

His erection is searing hot and pushing against my leg, leaving a tiny wet trail where his tip brushes my skin.

“ _Fuck_ I want you,” he murmurs into my ear, and I feel my perception of time and space shift into fragments, my only focus being his intoxicating voice and the places and ways he touches me.

He grabs the back of my knee to pull my legs apart and then puts his hand right between my buttocks, rubbing me there.

_Yes, yes, yes, God…_

“May I,  _please_ …” he sighs and licks a long stripe up my neck and throat until he reaches my mouth again.  

He’s not been Sherlock for a while now, but this soft plea somehow brings the man I know right back to me. I laugh at the ceiling and plant a sloppy kiss on his cheekbone.

“Go ahead,” I tell him, “I  _want_  you to.”

\---

I’m  _so_  glad that I’ve experimented with this before. I think I’d be terrified if this was the first time I had something up my arse, but luckily, it’s not. Mind you, all these other things were not alive, not moving in so many different ways, and, most importantly, not attached to  _Sherlock_ , so it’s different alright, but  _good_ different.

“Mmmhhhh… you’re so  _tight_ , so beautiful, John… Do you feel  _good..._? Do you need me  _deeper_  now, John...?  _Oh_ , I'm going to make you feel amazing... You're  _lovely_  like this, just let me in…  _Yeah_ , like that...”

I would  _never_  have imagined him to be the vocal type, but I’m not complaining. The string of endearments and obscenities spilling from his mouth is in itself a sexual act that he’s performing on me while he’s preparing me for his cock, so I’m being stimulated in stereo, which, if you happen to like rich baritones and nimble violinists’ fingers, is probably the best thing that can happen to you.

I moan at the burning sensation when he spreads three fingers inside of me, the pressure of being stretched like that more than I can take and still not enough. I’m usually the dominant one in physical relationships, but this is better than anything I’ve ever felt.

“Is this okay?” he asks, stilling his movements for a second to study my face and wait for an answer, and I have to concentrate hard to break through the haze of arousal clouding my mind right now.

“ _Yes_ ,” I whisper. “ _So_ good…”

He hums and scissors his fingers again, causing little flashes of light to dance around the edges of my field of vision.

I guess this is not the first time for him, either, because he found my prostate on the first try and has since then kept driving me wild by randomly brushing it with the pads of his fingers, and I’m torn between frustration and delight at his intentional lack of system in teasing me.

“ _Please_ ,” I finally choke out, “Ready…”

My cock, which he has completely neglected this whole time, is weeping against my abdomen, ready to explode, but I won’t get there if he doesn’t finally  _get on with it_.

He chuckles darkly, the sound causing goose bumps to rise on my whole body.

“I’m… not  _quite_  ready…  _yet_ ,” he mumbles and grins, getting on his knees between my legs.

Before I can protest, he bends down and takes me into his mouth, simultaneously crooking his fingers to put constant pressure on my sweet spot, and I double over and hit the pillow with the back of my head several times, writhing with pleasure.

“Oh GOD!” I hear somebody shout and realise it’s me, but I can’t control my voice anymore.

He hums around me, sounding pleased with himself, and the vibrations almost send me right over the edge. My cock starts to swell in his mouth, and he must have noticed, because he pulls both his mouth and his hand away from me and grips my base, squeezing it tightly and holding me still for a moment.

“No, no,” he pants. “Not yet…”

My eyes roll back in my head. I feel weak and I'm thrumming with want, and I’m not too proud to beg.

“ _Please_ ,” I whisper almost inaudibly, and then again, a little more loudly: “Please,  _Sherlock_ …”

He exhales sharply, and in between breathless lust and slight amusement at my wrecked state I can hear his affection for me peeking through. For a moment I stop and wonder how one little sound can hold so many facets of meaning, and when I crack my eyes open again to look at him, I can see the exact thing that I knew I heard. I ask myself if it has been there all along and if so,  _how in the name of God_  I could have missed it. I must have been _blind_.

During a particularly intense foreplay, little detours into the realm of emotions serve nicely to take the carnal edge off a little, at least enough to keep you from coming all over yourself, which, in my case, would have been not exactly unwelcome, but embarrassing nonetheless.

I breathe deeply and try to relax both my over-excited body and my stupid, besotted heart, and when he lets me go again I can look him squarely in the eye and even manage a grin.

“Disaster averted,” I say drily.

He smirks loftily, an expression contrasting immensely with the rest of his beautiful rumpled self. His chest is heaving and flushed with pink, his skin is shining with a thin layer of sweat, and his normally immaculately groomed hair is now completely ruffled and falling into his forehead in enticing curls.

“If you think  _this_  was good, wait until I've had my way with you,” he says hoarsely, sounding so self-confident and cocky that most of my painfully earned self-restraint goes straight back out of the window.

I shiver in anticipation and lean back, offering myself to him.

“Well then. Show me.”

\---

I didn’t think that it would be so easy, but he glides inside without resistance, my body inviting him in eagerly, pulling at him until he's embedded to the hilt, and we groan in unison when it's done and he comes to lie on top of me, large and heavy and wonderfully  _there_. I rest my heels against the small of his back and caress the nape of his neck, and he gives me a smile I've never seen on his face before - it's tender, and radiant, and filled with implications that are too large for me to comprehend right now.

" _Oh_ ," I say when he carefully pulls back and thrusts in again, and he stares at me from under heavy lids and leans in for a slow, wet kiss that makes me melt in his arms.

He's so gentle, and I would never have expected him to be like that in bed - but then again, if I'd known that there was such a thing as a  _sexual_  Sherlock, I'd have made my move ages ago.

" _Yes_ ," he breathes into my mouth and rolls his hips against me again, moving his body over the underside of my cock with perfect pressure, and my eyes flutter shut out of their own accord.

"Yeah, you're  _gorgeous_ , I love it," he says against my ear, his voice rough with arousal and something  _more_ , and that's when it happens.

That's when I realise what we’re doing here, what _I've_ done, what went wrong,  _so wrong_.

I gasp, my eyes screwed shut, my hands holding onto his shoulders for dear life. I feel sick, lightheaded,  _lost_.

_I've ruined my life today._

_I've ruined his life._

_I've ruined hers._

"Sherlock, oh God, I fucked up... oh  _God_ , I fucked up so much, I'm  _sorry_..." I moan, not able to help myself, my arousal turning into panic.

How he must have suffered, seeing me with her. How she will suffer, as soon as I get back...

"No, John," I hear him say, as if from far away, " _Sshhh_..."

I shake my head, my heart hammering in my chest. I can't stop. Everything is broken, and I'm responsible for it, and look at me now, cheating on my wife after having been married for not even a whole day. And she’s pregnant – _pregnant!_ But I do love him, always have, always will, always...

"Look at me," he pants, still moving inside me, never breaking his rhythm, "John, look at me now, come on..."

His hands come up to cup my face, the mattress dipping where he digs in his elbows next to me.

" _Look_  at me!" he repeats, sounding desperate, almost aggressive, and that's when I finally obey and open my eyes again.

His irises have turned dark, darker than I've ever seen them, and his next thrust is hard, violent, shaking my whole body to the core.

" _No_ , John, not  _now_ ," he hisses. "This is mine, this moment, it's  _mine_..."

He's breathing erratically, his thumbs pressing against my temples, his fingers carding through my hair, and I only get what he means when he's already started to say it, to open up his heart to me, so vulnerable, so  _terrible_ , and it's all my fault.

"It's mine, tonight,  _you_ , you're mine… If--- if it's the only time... I don't--- don't want to think about it... just  _you_ , now, for me... and for you, only  _me_..."

Faster, harder, deeper, and his words like lead, dropping heavily into my heart, my stomach. I've hurt him,  _him_  of all people, the one who matters the most.

"Say my name," he suddenly presses out through clenched teeth, and I do so to please him, to save myself, again and again.

"Sherlock," I groan, "Sherlock, Sherlock, only you,  _Sherlock_ , you, you,  _you_ \---"

" _Mh!_ " he moans and attaches his lips to my neck to suck, bite, leave a mark that I won't hide later, because it's too late now, and the pain of his teeth worrying at my skin becomes the only thing I feel for a moment, pulling me out of my own head and into his embrace again, and when I take the next deep breath against his temple, his scent and his hardness moving inside of me and his wonderful, urgent sounds of pleasure wash away the nausea throbbing in my throat.

I realise I'm still hard, my erection trapped tightly between our bodies as he thrusts against my arse, and I will myself to let go, at least for now, to give him this moment of mindless, reckless lust, without anything else to occupy my thoughts.  

"Only y _ou_ ," I repeat one last time and pull at his hair to get him to look up.

He does, and for a brief moment I wonder whether the wetness on his cheeks is caused by sweat or tears, but then he leans his forehead against mine and blocks my view like that.

"John," he gasps. " _John_..."

My world narrows down to the bed we're in, this tiny space in this massive, terrifying universe where we're making love, and where nothing else matters but  _us_.

_We are. This is not fucking, not only that, but so much more..._

I feel warm puffs of breath against my lips, hinting at his taste, which I've already gotten to know so well by now, his slender hips brushing the insides of my thighs, and his taut abdomen flexing with the effort of each thrust and rubbing against the sensitive spot under the head of my cock just  _right_ , and I know that I want this forever, again and again, because _nothing_ else will be good enough after this, and then he kisses me again, all tongue and teeth and  _hunger_ , and pushes his thighs under my lower body with one smooth, controlled movement of his legs.

He's stronger than he looks and the new angle almost lifts me off the bed, forcing him to break the kiss and lean back to support my weight. I yelp in surprise when his movements drive him even deeper into me, and he throws back his head and groans deeply, every sinew standing out on his neck. He looks like a God, like a creature not of this world, his pale skin almost iridescent in the weak light of the streetlamp filtering through the curtains. 

"Hold on tight," he growls and slaps my thighs for emphasis before taking them in a firm grip, and I tense up my muscles to keep my legs wrapped around him, my hands holding on to his knees, my shoulders pushing into the bed.

"Yeah..." he says as if talking to himself. "Just like that..."

Not taking his eyes off me, he begins to move again, pulling out almost completely and then thrusting back in, and I feel him even more intensely than before, reaching places inside of me that make me want to howl when he caresses them with the blunt, slick head of his magnificent cock, and I know I'm going to come from this, this alone, and bite my lip to keep it inside. His eyes are on fire, mesmerising me with their unflinching gaze.

"Oh,  _no_..." he pants and speeds up his pace, "No, John, be loud,  _show_  me..."

He pistons his hips into me, his chest heaving with exertion, his sweaty hair sticking to his temples, and I see the ever-present sadness in his features mingling with the pride of having me in this state, completely at his mercy, and I can see that he knows that he's the best I've ever had - that  _no one_  has ever made me feel this way.

"I want to--- _hear_ you,  _please_..." he tells me again, going faster still, and my world shatters to pieces around me, and I come.

"Oh---  _God_ , Sherlock,  _Sherlock_ , oh, oh,  _OH_ \--- God! You---  _you_ , I love this,  _I love you_ _!_ "

It feels  _so_  good, I can't believe it; he never even  _touched_  my cock and here I am, releasing myself all over my own chest in long spurts, some of it even striking my face, and I keep looking at him throughout my orgasm, grunting with the strain of holding onto him with my legs.

He follows me only a second later, opening his mouth in a silent scream and digging his fingers into my hips before rising to his knees with one last, forceful thrust, and then hot fluid fills my insides, and he moans and bites his lip in wild abandon, shaking against me in the throes of his climax.

" _Ungh!_ " I moan and finally have to let go, my legs falling open to either side of him, and he slumps down on me immediately, still grinding his hips in slow circles, still shivering with the aftershocks running through his body.

" _Hahhh_... John..." he sighs and nuzzles my jaw, his tongue sneaking out to kiss the streaks of ejaculate off my chin, and then he locks eyes with me and slowly licks his lips, very obviously memorising my taste, and if only I could come again...

" _Sherlock_ ," I pant, but I don't know what to say to make him understand what this meant to me, so I just capture his mouth with my lips and kiss him as if there was no tomorrow, his lids sliding shut the last thing I see before I close my own eyes and get lost in the moment once more.

I want to stay like this just a little bit longer, hiding inside the bubble of this bedroom, before real life catches up with us again.

\---

Mary puts the violin case down on the coffee table, careful not to make a sound. They wouldn't hear her anyway, not with the grunting, panting noises emanating from the bedroom right now, she muses, but she couldn't bear looking them in the eye. She moves as if on autopilot, her white dress swishing softly behind her when she goes and looks for pen and paper. Having found what she needs, she writes a short note, then props it up against the case holding Sherlock's instrument. Her hand lingers there for the fraction of a second and in her mind she sees herself take the violin and smash it against the wall, wood splinters flying everywhere, the sounds of broken strings giving voice to what is happening inside her heart. She doesn't do it. On her way out, she hears John make a sound that she's never heard him make before, and her detachment from the scene falters. Love has never been part of the plan; she's aware of that. Despite everything, it  _hurts_. And if Sherlock is right, things are going to get much more complicated soon.  _Sherlock._   _Fuck_ him for making her like him, for making it all so much more difficult. Fuck John for hurting her pride like that. _Fuck them._ Forcing herself not to let her tears fall here, with them only a few walls away, she pulls the door closed behind herself.

\---

"You left the violin behind, you wanker. Don't even think about coming home tonight."

I stare at the familiar handwriting, naked, the remnants of his release still running down the insides of my legs, and feel him step behind me and glance over my shoulder. We don't touch, but the tension radiating from him is palpable. My feet are cold.

I'd completely forgotten about the violin. It was supposed to be a great excuse, an easy one, but of course, I should have taken it with me. I'm an idiot.

I turn the slip of paper around in my hands, but there's nothing else.

_What else is she supposed to say?_

I only wanted to get a glass of water, and then I would have cleaned myself up, put on my clothes, gone back to the reception, and... then what? It's completely absurd, but she's making it easier for me. Isn't she?

_How much did she hear? How long did she stay? Did Mrs Hudson give her the keys?_

"I'm  _sorry_ ," he suddenly whispers, and I turn around to look at him. He's crying again, and when he rubs his face and tries to erase the evidence of his tears with the insides of his wrists, I realise that that's what he was doing when I found him in the garden, which feels like ages ago. He's naked as well, which makes him look incredibly young and vulnerable.

I shake my head. This is all on me. He wanted to leave. I forced him into it.

"It's not your fault."

He reaches out to me, but I back away, holding up my hands.

"No, sorry, I need--- some space, okay? Sorry."

He stops in mid-stride and nods curtly, then turns around and vanishes into his bedroom. A moment later I hear the door click shut. I'm alone.

\---

"Are you asleep?"

The tousled head visible underneath the thick duvet doesn't move, but I can hear him huff.

"Yes, of course. I went to sleep after leaving you standing in the dark with the broken pieces of your life lying at your feet. A good shag  _does_  make one feel so relaxed, don't you think?"

His voice sounds muffled. I have to smile in spite of myself - here's Sherlock, being himself.

"Okay, calm down," I reply and sit down on the edge of the bed. "May I?"

He turns towards me and lifts the duvet so that I can slip into bed beside him. I lie down, but keep a careful bit of space between us, not sure if he'll let me touch him after I rejected him earlier.

"I called her," I say. "She told me to fuck off, and that she needed time to think."

He stares at me through the half-light, his gaze inscrutable.

"Do you think she'll take you back?"

I laugh.

"Are you serious? Do you really think I'd go back to her after what happened tonight?"

He doesn't answer, and it dawns on me that he really doesn't know.

 _After everything that's happened in this bed, I almost forgot that you're_ you _._

"Sherlock," I say softly, putting my hand on his arm, glad that he doesn't pull back. "You really think I'd go back to her. Are you insane? I meant what I said when I told you that I--- when I said---"

Somehow it’s not so easy to repeat it, and all of a sudden I remember that I  _never_  said it to her, and neither did she say it to me, not even when I proposed. Whose idiotic idea was that, anyway? It was never real, never true. This, however, _is_.

"I love you," I say slowly, feeling the weight of the words on my shoulders, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth and exhales through his nose, sounding as if he'd been holding his breath all this time.

I increase the pressure of my hand on his arm, feeling my own blood pulsing through the veins in my palm, and finally he swallows and shuffles closer until we are face to face.

"I love you," he murmurs. "Have done so for a while now. I never thought you'd be interested in men, or in _me_ , so I tried to be content with what companionship you gave me and leave it at that. I've wanted---  _more_ for so long, but then I had to leave and you got married... I tried to like her, and I did, as time progressed. But it broke my heart to see you at the reception. I had reached my limit then. I’m sorry. And now that I know you want it, too, I still can't... I'm not very good at saying it, or showing it any other way than what we---" He pauses and sighs exasperatedly, clearly annoyed with himself. "I'm great at sex, but I suck at feelings."

He sounds so shy, but still very clinical, and everything I feel for him comes crashing down on me with a violent blow that literally takes my breath away.

"Sherlock," I whisper and smile at him incredulously. I can't believe he doesn't know that he's the most amazing person I've ever known. "You... you're  _you_ , okay? It's okay. You're okay."   

"And you're babbling," he replies, a slight smile tugging at that perfect Cupid's bow of his.

I lightly butt my forehead against his, then press a small kiss to his lips.

"You  _are_  great at sex. Where did you learn all that?" I ask him, because I'm curious.

_And a little bit jealous, but who am I to talk?_

He clears his throat.

"I conducted some experiments at university," he answers. "Not very many. I'm a quick learner."

It figures, because it's Sherlock, and yes, he does everything either perfectly or not at all. I chuckle.

“Well, I guess I have to be grateful to your… _research objects_ , because they taught you some really incredible things.”

"Thank you,” he replies. “Have you ever slept with another man?" he then wants to know, surprising me with the straight-forward question.

I shrug.

"No. Never wanted to. You're the only one."

He grins like the proverbial cat that got the cream.

"So, Sholto...?"

"What about him?"

He looks at me, his eyebrows raised, but it takes me a while to get it. "What?  _Oh!_  No! Sherlock...  _what???_ "

He raises his chin, a gesture that reminds me of the conversation that started it all, but he looks proud in a good way now.

"He used to want you. I deduced it five minutes into your interaction."

"You watched Sholto and me at the reception? To  _deduce_  him?"

"I understand that jealousy of former love interests is usually perceived as a flattering notion in new relationships, so why are you so upset?"

 _New relationships._  He doesn't know what it does to me when he uses these words, and that's okay. That's just who he is. And he’s right. I’m flattered. But I also know that if he assumed that I was involved with Sholto, this wedding must have been a nightmare for him.

“I’m all yours, Sherlock,” I say and take his hand to kiss his knuckles.

He presses his lips together.

“What are we going to do, John?” he asks.

_What are we going to do with this mess?_

Instead of an answer, I cuddle up against him and close my eyes. I don't want the world inside this room with us. Not yet. I want him, only him, tonight. Thinking about the past is pointless. Thinking about the future is too hard right now.

He puts his arms around me.

"Our timing is an absolute disaster," he says lowly. "I'm so sorry, John."

He's right.

My marriage has lasted for approximately eight hours before going up in smoke in a truly spectacular way.

I've just slept with my best friend. He's the most fascinating, annoying, difficult person in the world. I love him.

I'm probably going to be a father.

What are we going to do?

_Fuck it._

I'll worry about it tomorrow.

 

 

 

 


End file.
